Her house was grand but empty, her wealth extensive but meaningless without love to fill its halls. At first, I was just an employee, tending to her daily needs, but over time, we became something more—something deeper. We cooked together, played board games, watched old movies, and shared stories of our pasts. She became my home in a way that no place ever had. And when she passed away recently, my grief was immeasurable.

Her funeral was a quiet, somber affair, and yet, the air was thick with insincerity. Her relatives—who had barely visited her in years—stood around, dabbing at dry eyes, their emotions as performative as the black attire they wore. I stood in the background, unnoticed, as they whispered amongst themselves, their conversations laced with greed and speculation.

I went home that night feeling hollow, mourning the loss of the only person who had truly cared for me. But just as I was about to settle into bed, a loud knock at the door shattered the silence. My heart pounded as I opened it to find two officers standing on my doorstep.

“Miss Benson?” one of them asked.

I nodded, swallowing hard.

“We need you to come with us,” the other said, his tone neutral but firm.

A cold wave of anxiety swept over me. Without any further explanation, they led me to a police car, driving in silence through the dimly lit streets. When we finally pulled up in front of Mrs. Patterson’s house, my stomach twisted.

Inside, her entire family was waiting, their faces masks of fury. Her daughter, a tall woman with striking red hair and piercing eyes, pointed at me the moment I stepped through the door.